


(don't) call me maybe

by manticoremoons



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cop Jon Snow, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Meet-Cute, Meet-Ugly, Romantic Comedy, Some Humor, The Wedding Planner, Wedding Planner Daenerys Targaryen, a medium burn, i said i wanted to hit the romcom trope train and this is what i tried to do, they deserve each other, vaguely inspired by
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-05-18 21:59:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19343491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manticoremoons/pseuds/manticoremoons
Summary: Daenerys Targaryen is an up-and-coming wedding planner, and she's landed the biggest account of her career thus far - Robb Stark and Margaery Tyrell, the high society match of the year! This one will be the one to take Khaleesi's, her small two-person outfit, into the big leagues. All of this would be great if it wasn't for the hot bastard (no, a.r.s.e.h.o.l.e.,minus the hot), Jon Snow, a.k.a. Robb's best man. He's rude, mannerless, hates weddings and thinks romance is for fools. All of which make him the bane of Dany's existence. It's just a shame he's so damn pretty...





	1. it was certainly something at first sight...

**Author's Note:**

> So I wanted to play around with a romantic comedy for these fools. And I also needed to escape the agonies of canon, and so this happened. Parts of this have been in the works for a long time. I promise, I will finish this baby and not leave people hanging. I've written nearly all of it and just need to edit and streamline etc. Hopefully, someone likes this shebang.  
> Loosely based on the film, The Wedding Planner. Very loose, there's maybe like a couple things I remembered of that film anyways. Otherwise we're on our own. 
> 
> Also, really am in need of some kind of beta reader - there's a point where it's just hard to even decipher one's own writing because you've looked at it for so long. This is why I've been sitting on this story for months as I'm honestly not sure that it's _not_ totally rubbish. Fingers crossed! But if you have time and skill to be honest and push me, please holler.  
> This was going to somehow be for Jonerys Week but it grew to the point where I doubt it actually fits any theme directly so consider it a tribute to the whole effort. Long may we continue to celebrate this ship even when its creators shit on it.
> 
> All mistakes are my own, characters are borrowed and transplanted to Kingsland (my modern name for King's Landing).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake." —Elizabeth Gilbert

####  __

####  _A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake._ — **Elizabeth Gilbert**

 

#### ♣

 

“Varys, _please_ tell me you have all the cake samples ready for the Cerwyn appointment this afternoon or I might kill you.”

“Is that any way to talk to your most reliable, read _only_ full-time, employee, Daenerys?”

Dany winced at the use of her full name, as she hobbled off the bus, two blocks from the loft that doubled as both her flat and her office. No one called her ‘Daenerys’ except for her late Uncle Aemon and occasionally Viz, when he took the time to call her from whatever exotic Essosi locale and from whichever rich society madame or monsieur’s bed he was squatting in that week. But Varys always loved to be contrary. And since she’d nixed on him calling her ‘darling’ he’d settled for using her full name in that chiding drone of his, in a way that often made her feel like a five-year old getting reprimanded for having mud on her shoes or something.

“You’re a lifesaver, thank you!”

“I live to serve, my lady.”

“You really don’t!” Dany said with a chuckle as she switched her phone off, narrowly avoided getting run over by a mail messenger crossing in front of her, and struggled to balance her tote, teeming as it was with table cloth sample books and her newly-printed portfolio; her handbag which bulged with its contents (essentially her whole life, one never knew when they’d need a glue gun and a well-appointed sewing kit in her line of work after all). Cradled in her left arm was the clear plastic-wrapped potted plant Missy gifted her to brighten up the office and she’d managed to loop the packet of over-priced kitty mix from the posh pet place around the corner because her snobby Persian cat, Drogon refused to eat regular supermarket food like his little brother.

All this while teetering in her heels and attempting to stop the wind from snatching her frilly asymmetrical skirt up and flashing unsuspecting passers-by with a peek of arse.

In hindsight, wearing the Ferragamo sandals, a splurge after the cheque from a big job came in last month, had been ill-advised. They were cute, sexy, especially with her ruby-red pedicure, perfect-for-spring and made her hobbit-sized legs look positively Amazonian.

They just weren’t all that good for running around in. Certainly not running around five minutes late for potentially the biggest wedding account of her career so far.

Margaery “The Little Rose” Tyrell and Robb “The Young Wolf” Stark was the high society match of the year, possibly the bloody decade. It was the kind of wedding Westerosi gossip rags and fashion blogs and everyone else in between had been waiting for. Two of the most blue-blooded families on the continent uniting in glorious, aristocratic harmony. The Tyrells were obscenely wealthy. Known now for a horticultural empire that supplied flowers to every city on both sides of the Narrow Sea, they were unquestionably old money, with ties to royalty going back at least a thousand years according to the Wikipedia article Dany read in preparation for today’s meeting. The Starks were old aristocrats too, hardy Northmen who’d made most of their money during the Industrial Revolution, plumbing precious coal deposits from the Barrowlands and timber farming all the way up to Deepwood Motte. They’d moved on with the climate-sensitive times to more contemporary business interests and IT stuff that Dany found largely incomprehensible. Suffice it to say that the oldest son, Robb, was rolling in it and had had a bit of reputation as a polo-playing Lothario around town before the Tyrell’s finest Rose captured his heart. At least that’s what papers said.

Dany didn’t give a shit about aristocratic roots and all that—anyone could have fancy ancestors if you looked far enough. Uncle Aemon used to go on and on about how Targaryens were one of the most noble families from Old Valyria, the fairy tale land of dragon lords. “Before there was even a Westeros, there were Targaryen dragons,” had been his favourite line. Dany wasn’t quite sure if he meant _literal_ dragons or if it was just a reference to some sort of family sigil.

Needless to say, the miserable council house she’d grown up in with her constantly-drunk-and-yelling father; her mother, whose frightened eyes and bruised face, haunted every doorway until she faded away like the ghost she’d always been; and Viz, who’d been an often-shitty but always-fun presence before he fucked off to university, and then promptly flunked out to play gigolo to anyone who’d have him—had been far from lofty.

No, Dany’d had to claw her way out of that hellhole, fight for everything she had. And yes, she may have dropped her law degree, opting out of sitting the Bar and saddled with debts, some of them not entirely her own (thanks a lot, Viz). But that choice had led her to temping for an event-planning business in Kingsland and finding her calling, so to speak.

Huffing out in relief at the sight of her office building’s stoop, she sped up the little hill, peering into her bag for her resident entrance swipe card. Which was why she didn’t see the relatively large immovable object in front of her until she smacked into it. Hard.

The object made a grunting sound. “Ouch, would you watch where you’re going?”

Dany, whose centre of gravity was already shot to hell, let out a panicked yelp and started falling backwards. Loaded up as she was with baggage that was already spilling out of her arms and crashing on the pavement around her, there was almost no point in trying to catch herself. She just needed to pray to R’hllor that she didn’t bash her skull open. A terrible end to a short and not particularly accomplished life.

Before she hit the ground, a pair of firm hands caught her waist.

Dany gasped at the lack of head-splitting impact and cracked a single eye open to find a pair of dark, whiskey-soaked eyes looking at her. She could see a glint of amusement in their depths even with the frown of annoyance. The eyes sat in a handsome face, square jaw covered in a thick beard, a pair of firm lips and a riot of curls that reached his shoulders.

She wasn’t the kind of person to lose her breath over a good-looking guy—not anymore, at least. But this one had the kind of face she wanted to look at more than once. Certainly, more than twice. Which was the sort of thing she had absolutely _no_ time for right now, she raised her free arm to check her watch. Yep, no time at all.

“You all right?” he said in an accented burr that did inconvenient things to her insides.

“Um,” she said stupidly. Which may have had something to do with the hands gripping her waist, the only things responsible for her _not_ being concussed. “Could you let me up, please?”

His eyes widened as though he’d only just noticed that he was holding her like some sort of romance novel hero and he did as bid, popping her on her feet with a surprising grace. Like this she could see he was tallish, not too tall, but certainly tall enough that she had to look up from her meagre height.

Dressed in black-wash jeans, a casual fern-green that could almost be black Henley, a leather jacket, and scuffed boots, he looked like something out of a hipster magazine. Except with those hands still resting on her elbows as if to steady her even though she didn’t need much steadying anymore, and the calluses she could feel on his fingertips, he wasn’t the type of guy who went out of his way to merely _look_ like he worked with his hands.

Shaking her head because she was standing on the street gawking at a stranger instead of dashing up the stairs to her appointment, which she was already late for, by close to ten minutes—she took a step back.

“If you’d excuse me,” she said, scurrying around to pick up the detritus of her already very long day and it wasn’t even noon yet.

Lugging her tote over her shoulder, she crouched on the ground to pack all the things that had spilled out of her bag – lip gloss, her sewing kit, her wallet, her house keys, her pepper spray, three hair bands, a half-eaten Mars Bar for a much-needed pick-me-up, a half-eaten chocolate-covered granola bar for when she was in the mood for a ‘healthy’ pick-me-up. Basically everything she owned.

“Wow, not even a ‘thank you,’ for saving your life,” the Northern-tinged voice drawled from somewhere behind her. He mumbled something under his breath that sounded like “Southern girls.”

Dany’s eyebrows climbed up on her face, a ripple of aggravation running through her body as she threw over her shoulder with as little sincerity as she could muster: “ _Thank you_.” What a _weirdo_.

The man chuckled. “I don’t believe you mean that, princess.”

With a scoff at the nickname, Dany finally stood up with all her baggage, muttering a prayer of thanks that her potted plant wasn’t completely irretrievable thanks to Missy’s perfect packing skills. “I don’t think I care whether you believe it or not—but thank you anyway, _again_ ,” she said, tossing a frown in his direction before she clambered up the stairs to the building entrance.

The door presented yet another challenge but before she could notch her stuff on her hip to try and nudge it open, a manly hand reached over her and opened it for her. The same hands that had been holding her a few minutes before.

“Um, thanks?”

He grunted and followed her in, which was even weirder. Well, not _that_ weird. The building housed several small businesses on each floor, he could be going to any one of them. Still, Dany sped up to the elevator to escape him, her heels clacking loudly against the tile.

Of course, just her luck, he was heading for the elevator, too. She didn’t know how she felt about being stuck in a small space with this rude guy for thirty seconds, but she didn’t have much of a choice given how late she already was for her meeting.

“Are you following me?” Dany asked bluntly as she keyed in her floor with the tip of her baby finger.

Hot Weirdo simply shot her a look that rested between bemused, sceptical and annoyed.

“I have the police stalker report department on speed dial on my phone so don’t try anything funny,” Dany informed him in her most superior voice.

His left eyebrow rose in outright amusement this time, and Dany could tell he was trying very hard not to laugh at her— _the weird, absurdly hot bastard_. “There’s no such thing as a ‘police stalker report department.’”

“A- _ha_! How would you know that unless you _were_ a weirdo stalker?”

“I’m weird? You’re the weirdest and rudest woman I’ve ever met,” he said, casting a rather disparaging glance from the top of Dany’s head to her feet, where his eyes lingered before they rose up to glare at her again. “Princess Fancy Pants.”

“Stop calling me that—besides I’m not wearing any pants.” In fact, she was wearing silk wrap dress, lavender and frilly, and just on the borderline of professional and flirty with the asymmetrical slit along the flowy skirt and the less than demure neckline.

Of course, the obnoxious cretin raised another of his expressive eyebrows and eyed her legs so closely you’d think he had x-ray vision, choosing to purposefully misunderstand her: “That’s risky with a dress like that on a windy April day.”

Letting out a snort of frustration, Dany decided to ignore him. Why was she even engaging him? He was maddening.

When she hit her floor, he got off too and she swivelled around to tell him off good and proper. Or more accurately hiss at him since she didn’t want to alert anyone inside her loft, to the creep outside. “Stop following me.”

“I’m not following you, actually, I’m going to number 55, _Khaleesi_ ’s, if you’d like to get out my way.”

That stopped Dany in her tracks. “You’re coming in to _Khaleesi_ ’s?” She tried not to think about the strange _oh_ of disappointment that whispered through her mind. Attractive man, of marriageable age, coming into a wedding planner business? It didn’t take a maester to do the maths.

Before Hot Bastard could respond, there was a loud clang and Varys’ voice came singing through her front door. “Ah, there you are, Daenerys, just in time! And oh—with another customer.” He eyed Hot Bastard askance and shot Dany a sly look, with his well-shaped eyebrows raised. Dany rolled her eyes in response, attempting to keep it subtle since the guy was a potential customer. Even if he was a jerk.

“ _Finally_ , Jon—we thought you’d never get here!” another voice, this one airy and feminine, squealed.

Jon (a.k.a. Hot Bastard)’s frown broke into a happy grin that made his face even prettier as a body made up of long limbs and fire-struck hair threw itself at him. This one was followed closely by another redhead, a male this time, who wrapped his arms around both bodies as they all laughed with glee just to be around each other. Dany was even sure she heard the male ginger howl like a wolf, a barrel-chested chuckle slipping out of his mouth as he did so.

It was clearly a family reunion; there was such a warmth and familiarity to the way they all held each other that it made Dany feel a curl of envy. Her rare reunions with Viz, her only living relative, weren’t often happy affairs. Most often, he’d show up drunk or high, camp on her couch for a few days, eat her out of house and home, borrow some money that he never intended to pay back, before heading off to some new exotic location and a new meal ticket.

She could never be angry with him for it though. He was only doing what he’d always done, the very things he’d done to help them both survive when they were younger. After father broke parole one too many times, and mother took one too many pills, and it was just the two of them trying to make ends meet. And there were still times—moments really—when she caught a glimpse of _her_ brother. Of the Viz who’d cleaned her scrapes and scratches, who’d taught her how to speak all the dirty words of Old Valyrian that he knew, who’d told her all the stories of how fancy their family had been before things went to shit, who’d made the best beans-on-toast she’d ever have in her life. _That_ Viz, whenever she had a laugh with him, was the brother she truly loved. And all the shit that came with was almost worth it just to get some time with him.

Shaking off the untimely memories, Dany stepped around the family reunion and plopped her bags and plant on the file cabinet by the door and turned around to greet the cool-eyed brunette posed perfectly on her greeting room couch.

“Hello, I’m Dany—you must be Ms Tyrell.”

“Oh, call me Margaery, please. You’re Daenerys Targaryen?” She had a mellifluous voice, the sort that arrested whole rooms of people or worked well on audio books. “I somehow expected you to be taller—especially after the incredible recommendations I’ve gotten from Arianne and Aegon.”

Dany laughed. “I certainly get that a lot, Margaery. And please, call me Dany.”

“Darling,” Margaery called and the howling man, who must be Robb Stark, immediately turned around, the smile on his face softening just to look at his betrothed. “We should get started—don’t you think?” She gave a jaunty wave towards Hot Bastard who came forward to give her a hug.

“Of course, my love,” Robb said, and he had the look of a man who knew he was well and truly wrapped around his woman’s finger and didn’t give a damn about it.

“I’m sorry, Dany let me introduce you to this noisy wolf pack—this is Robb, my fiancé, and his siblings who are our maid and man of honour, Sansa and Jon. We wanted them along because they’ll be doing a little of the heavy lifting for us, everything’s so hectic with our families—”

“Bloody insane, more like,” Robb interjected with a dramatic eye-roll. “Between her family and mine, I’m thinking elopement is the best option.”

Margaery continued like he hadn’t said anything, “That we felt we needed back-up in case it all really goes—”

“Tits up,” Robb piped up, earning himself a slap on the knee from his fiancée. He didn’t look chastened at all, but there was a tickle of a smile on the corner of his mouth when Margaery kept her hand on his thigh with the sort of easy proprietariness that couples just have between them. The two of them couldn’t have been more different, Margaery with her polished charm and Robb with his tousled hair and boyish humour, but for some reason, they worked.

 _So, Hot Bastard isn’t getting married himself_. Dany didn’t want to think about why that made her gut loosen in something akin to relief.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all. This is Varys, my partner—he’s the eyes and ears of this whole operation, and will be giving overall oversight on this project, particularly some of the main societal events in the lead-up and on the big day itself. I’ll be working more closely with you, overseeing the day-to-day and tiny details that will make your celebration truly special and personal. We’re a small company, but we’ve built a strong reputation for what we do, and we are the best.” Dany reeled out her customary spiel with as much professionalism as possible and avoided looking anywhere in Hot Bastard— _Jon’s_ —direction so she wouldn’t lose her train of thought.

“That’s a bold claim, don’t you think?”

Of course, the man she was trying not to pay any mind to couldn’t keep his mouth shut like a normal person and chose to antagonise her.

“What is?” Dany asked, pasting a smile on her face, as she handed preliminary wedding planning checklists to everyone in the room.

“That you’re the ‘best’ in the business. I mean, how do we prove your claim? Why should we believe it, for that matter given there's probably scores of planners across the country who can do this?”

Dany bristled, and she could practically sense Varys’ hackles rising and doing a jig on the office table. He took insults to his skills just about as well as she did. Which meant not very well at all.

“Shut up, Jon,” Sansa drawled as she perused the checklist. “You’ll have to forgive my brother, he’s been known to be a stick-in-the-arse about certain things.”

“It’s the ex-watchman in him, can’t help treating everything like some intense interrogation he needs to crack,” Robb added with a smile, shooting Jon a quelling look.

So, he’d been a watchman—the most elite force in the army corps of Westeros, known primarily for their effectiveness, ruthlessness and the dashing all-black uniforms that earned them the nickname ‘crows’ in regular society. Dany imagined Hot Bastard in one of those uniforms and quickly squashed the thought. She’d never had a kink for military types before but the image of her new nemesis in the customary watchman outfit was more appealing than it had any right to be.

Shaking her head, Dany resolved not to let the pest of a man irritate her beyond reason. She couldn’t really afford to lose her temper in front of a big client. “Oh, it’s all right, I’m used to proving myself to people who have no faith in me especially as I’m a woman. And I’m very good at it.” She glared directly at Jon—who had now been promoted to _The Arsehole-minus-the-‘hot’—_ this time, letting him know in no uncertain terms that she wouldn’t take any shit from him. She’d worked her behind off to get where she was, and no one could take that away from her. Not even surly men with bad attitudes.

He didn’t seem phased at all, in fact the sardonic twist to his mouth made it clear he’d just been trying to provoke her. But the intensity in his eyes as he looked at her made Dany shiver. He looked at her like he was trying to peel away her skin and pick at her insides. Not in a creepy serial killer way. But in the way that would leave her panting, and ruffled, and exposed.

Dany didn’t like it one bit.

And she _didn’t_ like him.

 

#### ♣


	2. this wedding stuff is just an excuse for daylight robbery...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I love being married. It’s so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life."—Rita Rudner
> 
> In which we get to know Jon a bit more, our lad's got issues. And that's okay. Also, these two individuals would probably argue about whether the sky is blue or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for all the kind feedback, it's all very appreciated!
> 
> So, this has been a hectic week for me. Between work commitments, and getting distracted with writing random other things for Jonerys week (attempting to - I have three stories that need to be finished and they're killing me), and the trials of having no beta for this thing (and me changing things up, which means needing a bit more time to make shit work because writing is hard argh), it was unavoidable. This isn't as long as I wanted it to be, sorry. I will try to get the next chapter which is mostly done up later today/tomorrow. But from hereon out, updates will likely be weekly.

####  __

####  _I love being married. It’s so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life._ — **Rita Rudner**

 

#### ♣

Jon was really starting to regret ever agreeing to this best man gig. In his head, he’d visualised this as little more than hanging out with his brother, planning a decent stag do with an all-you-can-drink beer fountain, holding onto the rings and being forced to wear an actual suit with a proper tie for a few hours on the important day. That was it.

But apparently, weddings and the planning thereof were a fucking mile-long list of shit to do, shit to view, assess, choose, and then change your mind on a few hours later _because of reasons_ , only to have to go through the same crap process again.

Jon would literally rather take a ranging mission beyond the border walls up North, with nothing but a knife to defend himself against the occasional mountain lion or violent red-head than whatever the hell this mess was. And that was saying a lot given his experience with both lions and murderous gingers, and so much else that his tiresome work-mandated shrink claimed were the cause of his post-traumatic stress symptoms.  

This morning, he’d woken in a cold sweat hours before dawn, yanked from the memories of his time at the Wall. The nightmares always came back every couple of months. Often, when he was stressed out or too tired, and he’d spend hours imbibing endless cups of coffee (or the occasional whiskey) and watching shitty infomercials on his television to run away from sleep and thinking too much.

So already, this Saturday afternoon was a bloody chore. He was exhausted, pissed off at the universe because of it, and he now found himself sharing a car with two disgustingly in love soon-to-be-marrieds and a five-foot-nothing, blonde termagant of a woman. 

Robb and Margaery were seated up front. And even though Robb was driving (sure, it was an automatic, but still), it didn’t deter them from exchanging moony eyes and a surreptitious grope every five seconds, all but threatening to stop the car for a quickie. And that was only out of threadbare consideration for their passengers in the backseat.

Jon glanced at the woman beside him out of the corner of her eye. She was currently perusing the mile-long list of wedding-shit to do, a pen in hand, making copious notes while typing furiously into a phone messenger app with the other hand.

After that first meeting, Jon had resolved that he didn’t like Daenerys Targaryen.

She was uppity and rude, clearly had a very high opinion of herself and her so-called skills and looked down her nose at him at every opportunity. A genuinely impressive feat given she had the height of a blonde hobbit, if even that. She looked like the kind of woman who would shriek in horror if she a speck of mud hit her. From the top of her pretty little head (and he could admit, she was easy on the eyes) to those absurd blush-pink heels on her feet (how she could walk in those without breaking her little neck was an ongoing mystery for him), she was exactly the kind of female he despised on principle.

“Dany, do we turn left on this or the next one?”

“The next one, Robb—I’m hoping you two will love this place. It’s intimate without being too small like the vineyard we just left, and it has the most fantastic view!”

She seemed to have an unstinting enthusiasm for showing the engaged couple potential venues for the big day. Robb and Margaery had decided they wanted to get married overlooking the ocean but in a spot with a perfect mountain view and the homey feel of the country. They’d already been to three other venues along the Crownlands coast. Those weren’t up to scratch, and now it was the fourth and last, and Jon was going stir crazy. For all he knew, they were halfway to bloody Storm’s End at this rate. He didn’t like being trapped in one space for longer than a few hours at the best of times. But today, it was _a lot_. He’d sucked it up because he loved his brother but even now, he kept bouncing his knee, anxious to be out of the car and breathing _open_ mountain air.

And, if he was honest, to get away from _her_.

The why of it made him want to berate himself as he thought back to their almost-fight earlier.

All he’d asked, around the time they were milling in the lush gardens outside the second venue while Robb and Margaery had a look around and spoke to the owners inside, was: “So how much does it cost to rent one of these places, anyway?”

She’d looked at him over the top of her thick notebook, which was stuffed full of paper and copious brightly coloured sticky tabs. “Anywhere upwards of ten thousand pounds for eight hours in a day, all services included.”

Jon’s eyebrow quirked in disbelief. “10,000 quid for a half day? That’s mad.”

“No, _that’s_ the price you pay for the best kind of quality,” she said primly.

With a disparaging snort, Jon shot back, “It’s daylight robbery, if you ask me.”

“Well, thank god, no one’s asking you, are they?” She raised her notebook up again, effectively trying to shut him out. That had raised his hackles. For some reason, the notion of her trying to ignore him pissed him off so much that he couldn’t _not_ needle her further.

“Statistically, something like 1 in 4 marriages in ends up in divorce—it seems nuts to waste all this blunt for _one_ day when there’s a massive chance you’ll end up hating the person and breaking up, anyway.”

“That’s a very cynical outlook,” Daenerys said with a disappointed sneer on her face. “And besides, research shows that it’s actually 1 in 6 since approximately 1280 AC, the Second World War and the aftermath of the Depression.” He arched his brow at her ability to reel off that kind of obscure statistic. Perhaps it was a part of her job to know that kind of stuff but… it was a little weird.

She stuffed her notebook into her overly large handbag and started walking towards a copse of fir trees.

Jon followed, drawn by an invisible thread and desire to piss her off, apparently.

“Well, surely you can see that it’s hard not to be cynical when that’s the reality of the world. Even if people don’t divorce, most of them seem bloody miserable with each other once the shine wears off.”

It was true, of his close friends, only two seemed to be somewhat happily married. Sam and Gilly had been together since high school, Davos and his wife had been married forty years. But they were clear exceptions to the rule. He continued, because Jon had a lot of thoughts on this subject matter having survived possibly the most toxic relationship this side of the Narrow Sea and he felt compelled to burst whatever idealistic bubble this woman had.

“Love makes people foolish, too willing to throw away things like honour and duty for some fleeting feeling. It’s all bollocks is what it is.”

“Love is not bollocks, all right. It’s _real_ for people who choose to spend the rest of their lives together. Who feel they’ve found someone who can accept them for who they are, warts and all.”

He laughed out loud at that. “That’s the cracker, princess. No one accepts shit. They pretend they do with the hopes that their spouse will change just enough to fit right. And when it doesn’t work, they find someone else who fits the bill or die miserable.”

“Relationships _are_ about change, and adapting, you lout. And even if, as you say, it doesn’t end well for one sixth of the population, weddings, exchanging vows… those moments are still important and should be cherished.”

“That sounds like the back of an overpriced Valentine’s Day Hallmark card, princess. I’m not buying it.”

Daenerys stopped in her tracks and turned to him, hands on her hips. “I hope you’re not planning on sharing your obvious _enthusiasm_ for all things romance and true love during your speech at the wedding reception.”

The acidic sarcasm dripping from the word “enthusiasm” probably could’ve burned a hole in the ground beneath them.

Jon shrugged, and said with nonchalance as he moved closer to her, “I’ll try to hold myself back.” He wasn’t a wordsmith in any shape or form, but he wasn’t dumb enough to totally muck things up for Robb on his big day. He’d make sure to get Sam, who was a literal genius, to check his speech beforehand.

“See that you do. Your brother’s in love _and_ committed. He doesn’t need all your nasty negativity fouling up the atmosphere.” This, she said with a scrunched-up nose as though she’d smelled something bad. And that something was him.

 Jon would think that expression was kind of cute if he wasn’t deathly exasperated by the woman. The only saving grace of the day was that he took an inordinate amount of pleasure from irritating her just as much as she did him. Something about how her cheeks got flushed, and her eyes turned an angry midnight blue flecked with gold was rather enjoyable.

So, he decided to dig in even deeper. “Robb’s a lost cause, I’m afraid. Margaery’s a nice woman. But, I figure I’ll let him make his own mistakes and when it falls apart, I’ll help him pick up the pieces.”

“God, you are insufferable, you know that?” She poked him in the chest as she said each word. “Not everyone is as miserable as you—some people are capable of regular human connection and feelings. Of _love_.”

Jon couldn’t help but notice the sweet fragrance that drifted from her, close as she was to him. A delicate mix of honey and something that reminded him of the jasmine bush that stood outside his bedroom window back at Winterfell. He shook his head to stop himself from doing something strange like leaning into sniff at her like a damn bloodhound, like Ghost might do.

Despite her irksome poking at his chest, he stood his ground. “Keeping it real is one of my better qualities. I’ve often been told I’m honest to a fault.”

“Emphasis on ‘fault.’ Have you ever even been in love before? I pity the woman who had to deal with you, if so,” she said with patent disgust.

“Aye, I have, it ended up a shit show so I learned my lesson.”

Her gaze had softened a little bit then and she looked almost sorry for him. Her voice gentle, she uttered with an air of reassurance, “Well, then maybe you should dust yourself off and try again.”

He didn’t like the way that look made him feel like a charity case in need of comforting and pity. He didn’t need anybody feeling sorry for him, he never had. “Or, save myself the trouble, and live a mostly satisfactory life with minimal nonsense.”

“Ugh.” She’d walked away from him in a huff, then. Her pink heels clacking on the bricked path. The shin-length skirt of her flowery dress clinging to her curves in a way that was excessively distracting.

Since then, she’d gone to a great deal of effort to actively ignore him and pretend he wasn’t sitting right next to her in the back of Robb’s Jeep.

Jon felt vaguely bad about it. He was a time-worn cynic when it came to notions of love and all that sunshine and roses crap, and he didn’t apologise for it. The _real_ world had no room for things like that. But something about her and the disappointment in the depths of those blue eyes when he’d told her the what for, almost made him want to apologise, and he had no idea why.

Could anyone blame him, though? His first serious girlfriend had dumped him for someone richer with better career prospects than an underpaid soldier who spent eleven months out of the year in service. The next one had been a woman he’d met in training at the Wall. Val was brilliant and bright, and she’d dumped him to go and pursue her career as an Arctic research scientist in a place far too north to even consider relocating to.

His last serious relationship had been with a woman he’d had no business getting involved with in the first place. Cross-border drug trafficking was a big business in many of the small towns that lined northern coasts. Those towns formed a smuggler’s corridor that went from the Bay of Seals all the way across to the small island nation of Ibben just north of Essos in the Shivering Sea. He’d been sent on a mission to infiltrate one of the more infamous wildling trafficking rings headquartered at a deceptively sleepy fishing city called Hardhome. The undercover part of his job had been fine, he’d been trained for it after all and working with his inside man, a blustering blow-hard named Tormund, had made it that much easier. But that had only got him so far.

To get in as deep with the leadership as possible, he’d volunteered to play honeypot for a woman who, at the time, controlled most of the trade routes south of the Wall. Ygritte, fiery and as hot-tempered as her hair was red, she’d been a tough nut to crack. She’d been difficult. Aggressive, prone to temper tantrums and insults, and pushy when she decided she wanted him for herself. He wasn’t going to lie to himself. He’d been attracted to her, attracted to the fieriness of her personality, to how well she handled a gun even as he’d been repulsed by the person she chose to be and the way she made her money.

But then he’d foolishly decided to fall in love with her and it had all gone to shit. She and her cohorts just about killed him, shooting him up so badly that he’d spent two months in a coma on the brink of death. And when he came out, he’d had all these accolades and awards he didn’t want, a case that he’d won but hadn’t been awake to see it through, and a discharge from the only place he’d called home since he’d joined up to the armed forces right after university.

_That had fucking hurt._

After that, Jon had decided that love was the greatest liability there was and sworn off the stuff for good. What was the point in believing in that shit anyway if it always ended up blowing in your face? If people threw you away in the end either way?

Frankly, his life had been peaceful ever since. And he fully intended it to stay that way. No little blonde women with fantasies of Care Bears and impractical shoes would convince him differently. He crossed his arms over his chest and made it a point _not_ to let himself get distracted by her dainty little foot twirling the tip of those silly heels that he could see in his periphery.

Once Robb pulled in to the parking lot, Jon practically leaped out the car and made a beeline for the lodge’s bar and restaurant. If he had to be stuck on this field trip, he might as well buy himself a beer or three to get through it. His spine tingled as he walked away, almost as if he could feel someone watching him. Maybe she was pitying him again or possibly trying to set his arse on fire by glaring. But he forced himself to keep it moving and not turn back.

He ignored the voice in the back of his mind that told him it seemed like he was very much running away.

 

 

#### ♣

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Till next time.


	3. table settings are of utmost importance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why did Comic Sans break up with Times New Roman? He just wasn’t her type." - Unknown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is much later than I anticipated. A combination of real life kicking my gonads, the Muse completely leaving me (to the point where even trying to edit already-written chapters was a chore and a source of anger), and busyness made it hard to come back to this. Rest assured, this story will be updated but my updates will not be too regular - at least not for a while, my real life job is too insane right now and there's very little head-space to write or think about fannish things. On the up-side, the next chapter should be coming in the next few days. 
> 
> Many thanks to the super-talented @elizaham8957, my generous beta-reader, who is pretty much the only reason this can go up now in a decent state!

####   

####  _Why did Comic Sans break up with Times New Roman? He just wasn’t her type._ — **Unknown**

 

#### ♣

Her room was dark. With a groan, she shifted her head to peer at the neon-blink of her alarm clock on the table beside her bed. Three in the morning? It’s rare for her to wake in the middle of the night. She frowned, and then she felt it. A pair of rough, calloused hands skimming their way up her thighs, nudging them apart.

_What the fuck?_

Dany didn’t have much time to think or question, because then a pair of soft lips followed the hands, and then she could feel the sweltering heat of someone breathing softly against her core, and then the slick brush of a tongue on her clit. And, _oh_.

_Oh, that feels—_

“Yes… oh yes,” she mumbled, tossing in the over-heated sheets, legs splaying open to accommodate her still-hidden lover. “Right _there_ ,” she urged him on, her fingers finding the back of his head under the pile of bed-clothes, so she could draw him in closer. His hair felt silky soft in her hands, each lock curling around her fingers. His tongue fluttered and spiralled against her, and he pushed first one then another finger inside her, the fit tight and perfect.

She was already trembling with it. _Gods_. When was the last time she had an orgasm assisted by something other than her own hand or a trusty vibrator?

Before her brain could settle on that snarl of a question for too long, he drew her nub between his lips and sucked, hard. His fingers moved _just so_ inside her. As though he knew exactly how to play her, where to touch her and bring her off. And unbelievably, absurdly, she was coming, her hips stuttering and a desperate whine falling from her mouth.

“You’re the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met,” the man said, gruff and impatient. She couldn’t see him from up here, but she could tell he was pissed, and his voice sounded so familiar, all husky and growly like that…. She should have been punching the owner of said voice in the face for being so presumptuous and eating her out like she was his last meal on earth, thereby ruining her for all others. It was on the tip of her tongue to mumble that _he was_ the _actual_ most infuriating human being on the planet, but then—

That was what yanked her out of the post-climax haze of her dream into wakefulness, and Dany sprang up from her bed, flinging her bed sheets away from her overheated body. Part of her expected to still find her dream—make that _nightmare_ —lover there, looking up at her with that familiar glower. But there was nothing and no one. With a shameful cringe, she glanced at her night-stand clock. _5:02AM_.

Of _all_ the people to have unconscious fantasies about, why on earth did it need to be Jon bleeding Snow? She caught sight of herself in the mirror— her skin was flushed, her nipples swollen through the tiny silk pyjama set she liked to wear on nights it wasn’t hot enough to sleep nude, and she could feel the moisture between her thighs.

Damn him to all seven hells. He was determined to ruin literally every part of her life, wasn’t he? With an annoyed huff, Dany made her way to her bathroom to take the coldest shower imaginable and banish all thoughts of that insufferable dickhead from her mind.

“I hate Jon Snow,” she mumbled at no one in particular. If nothing else, it felt bloody good to say it out loud.

 

#### ♣

 

_Hey, sweet little sister…. Well, you know, it’s me. Why aren’t you answering any of my messages by the way? I know for a fact you’ve seen them. WhatsApp has a feature for that if you’re doing the avoidance thing… [… static] …. Anyway, I need your help. I promise this time is the last time—but you’ve got to spot me for a bit of cash, Dany-Dany, I’m desperate! You know how these rich toffs in Essos can be…. That bastard Illyrio and his wife left me high and dry in a hotel in Volantis and I’m absolutely fucked. I totally should’ve listened to you, you did tell me it was all shady. Anyway, dire straits, you know how it goes. Two hundred quid will do, three if you can spare it. Don’t put it in my account though because I’ve been overdrawn for like five months, I won’t get see any of it. Just wire it to this number, yeah? Thanks, darling sis, you’re a lifesaver. I’ve got a gig lined up, but I just need something to tide me over, you know? Okay, ciao!_

Dany tried to tamp down the irritation building up in her gullet as she listened to Viz’ chirpy voice message. A low-intensity headache started building at the base of her neck just thinking of whatever trouble her brother had gotten himself into now.

A lot of the time, it was hard to believe that he was the elder out of the two of them. Viz somehow floated through life without a care, entirely feckless and immune to any shred of self-reflection or responsibility while she followed after him trying to pick up the pieces.

He hadn’t always been this way, of course. When they were younger, just kids, the two of them in that dingy old council house, it was Viz who’d taken care of her. He’d watched out for her when dear old Dad got in his cups or Mum had one of her episodes. Sometimes he’d even take a slap when their father had one of his blow-outs if it meant it might protect her. He taught her how to make the very best egg-and-cheese scramble she’d ever tasted. And then he’d sneak her into the old movie theatre down the road from theirs, The Bailey, where they could catch old school movies on a big screen and escape into a world of technicolour romance and vintage charm where everything was simple—people fell in love, families stuck together, the good guys won and there was a song for every bit of sadness. 

The Bailey had smelled of buttery popcorn and mothballs, and they got some of the doddering old folk from the local retiree home to man the counter, which was probably the reason they could sneak in so often. Old Mr Darry was half blind and spent a lot of time filling in his Bingo cards, and his soft spot for her always meant he’d be more likely to give her a free lemon cake from the concessions counter instead of making sure they paid full price to watch a film.

Dany’s mouth twisted in sad remembrance. The place shut down eventually when she was twelve or so, and Old Mr Darry passed on that year, too. But it held so many fond memories for her, and even for Viz, of a time when it was far simpler being Viserys Targaryen’s little sister.

Nowadays what that usually meant was forking out money to bail her brother out of jail, or to pay for one of his ill-begotten get-rich-quick schemes that inevitably ended up a scam, or to get him out of whatever bind he was in. She’d only managed to put her foot down a few years ago, and they went through periods of just not talking to each other. But, those didn’t last longer than a few years—he was her blood, after all. That had to mean something.

She loved Viz, she truly did. It was just… frustrating.

“Dany, what do you think of this cloth combination? I really love the gold silk with the fern green tulle, don’t you?”

Shoving her phone into her purse, Dany plastered a smile on her face and turned to Margaery.

Looking at the swatches of material, she frowned. “Hm, I’m not sure—I know you wanted it to be subtle, so how about having something lighter with the gold, champagne and a blush rose, and then we can bring in accents of Tyrell green and Stark silvery-grey with some of the table settings. Maybe some lanterns, and some lush vines?”

She picked up a different combination of swatches and laid them out, then brought a pair of antique candelabras in gilt silver and swabbed a bit of greenery from the furniture shop’s central flower arrangement and laid it out for Margaery to see.

“What do you think?”

There was nothing better than seeing a client smiling the way Margaery was now.

“That’s brilliant. I never would’ve thought about that kind of combination. This is so much better than my dad and Lady Stark’s obsession with making the whole thing a full-on tacky Tyrell-Stark colours affair.” She rolled her eyes in frustration, the very picture of a bride nearing the end of her rope with meddling parents.

Dany’d had a taste of Catelyn Stark and Mace Tyrell’s version of ‘tasteful’ décor and it had even had her—an obsessive colour fiend with a yen for ruby reds, silvers and anything luxurious—cringing. “Families can be hard, can’t they?”

“Yeah. It’s like, I don’t want to disappoint them, and this wedding is just as much for them as it is for Robb and me. It’s important to both of us to celebrate this moment with the people we love. But it’s just … bloody exhausting sometimes.”

Dany felt a twinge of empathy. She knew first-hand how bloody exhausting family could be, and she only had the one person left in hers.

“I thought perhaps we could bring in a more family-centric theme for the rehearsal dinner? Since it’s happening at Highgarden, the backdrop will be perfect, and we could have a sort of fall-themed combination of dark maroons, greens and gold with silver and midnight blue—that way—”

“We kill two birds with one stone,” Margaery interjected with an excited clap.

“Exactly!” They grinned at each other, the conspiracy well and truly afoot.

“You’re really good at this.”

With a one-shouldered shrug, Dany jotted down some quick shorthand notes, so she could get to ordering materials and sourcing options. She’d need to bring in Missandei, who, as one of the best antique buyers in the business, had a real head for finding aesthetically-pleasing and unique knick-knacks for a wedding of this grandeur.

“Well, it’s my job to be good at this—so I’m glad that’s working out for us.”

Margaery picked up her handbag, and as they headed out of the shop and into the late afternoon sunshine of a rather busy Kingsland, she said with one of her quirky smiles, “Would you like to come out with me for a drink? We finished up here earlier than we budgeted for and I’d love to get to know you, Daenerys Targaryen.”

Dany smiled with a self-deprecating tilt of her head. It wasn’t often that she actually found any of her clients tolerable or interesting enough to hang out with. Usually, the brides were stroppy and demanding, and she’d rather head home to a glass of Dornish Red, her cats, and a Hepburn & Tracey movie marathon. But Margaery had a way of making anyone feel welcome and her warm charisma made you want to be around her.

“Lead the way, soon to be Mrs Stark.”

“Tyrell-Stark, thank you very much,” Margaery said with a giggle.

“Oh, that must have gone down a treat with the future mother-in-law.” Whatever else, Catelyn Stark didn’t seem like the type to have any sympathy for feminist sensibilities in any shape or form.

Nudging her shoulder as they both burst into laughter, Margaery replied, “You have no idea.”

They picked a small bistro-bar right on the edge of the trendy club district, so not too noisy but a very good selection of cocktails. The conversation flowed as they shifted from topic to topic with the ease of people who’d known each other far longer than they did. By the time Dany was on her third martini, they were well on their way to being fast friends. And she was well on her way to being sloshed.

“Okay, so, I read in the Spring issue of _Vogue_ that you and Robb met at a charity polo match—true or false?”

“Oh god, that’s the ‘civilised’ story. I actually met him at a party my brother-in-law Renly was throwing, and I looked across the room and I _knew_ I had to have him—or mount him, right there and then.” Margaery’s eyes glazed over in fond (and notably thirsty) remembrance as she took a swig of her champagne.

“I _knew_ it sounded too boring to be true!” When she’d read that article, she’d honestly wondered if rich people just lived lives out of a bad romance novel because ‘charity polo match’ sounded about as poncey as you could get without going full Royal Ascot race.

“To be fair, I _did_ then go and watch him play polo the next weekend, but only so I could mount him in one of the empty stalls while the match was going on.”

“Oh, you are bad.”

“Couldn’t help myself—have you seen the man? He’s like a walking invitation to partake in public displays of indecency.”

Dany thought about Robb with a squint. He was alright looking. “I see what you mean—I’m into more of a dark, dangerous type, but Robb’s definitely got that whole studly Prince Charming thing down, you know?”

“Well, I’m glad he’s not your type or I’d have to claw your eyes out,” Margaery announced as she polished off her drink and signalled for a refill for them both. “I never used to be possessive, but he brings it out in me, gods help me.”

“Okay, I have to tap out after this one because I have to be a responsible adult tomorrow morning.” Dany wasn’t a lightweight by any means, but the selection of tapas they’d shared wasn’t doing much to soak up this booze.

“Ugh, I hate being a responsible adult. Here’s to being perfectly _irresponsible_ for one weeknight and many others to come!” They clinked glasses and sipped on their respective drinks.

“So, dark and dangerous, you said? I think I know the perfect man for you—unless you’re seeing someone….”

“Very single and only occasionally free enough to mingle these days. Work takes up most of my time.”

“Hm, but everyone needs to, you know, have someone to _brush out the cobwebs down there_ once in a while.”

“True facts, I’m very much a proponent of self-loving, but sometimes there’s nothing like a warm body, whether it’s soft and pretty or all hard and muscly. I just—haven’t found anyone that makes me… tingle, you know? Like, I love sex, and I’m all for casual get-it-out-of-my-system fucking. But I also love … _romance_. And those two things aren’t compatible with a lot of people I meet.”

“I hear you. I wasn’t a big romantic myself, but Robb ruined me for all others. He’s all about candle-lit dinners and giving me all these stupidly sweet gifts. Ugh, he’s the worst. Because he’s a ruiner. A ruiner of lives and panties!”

They cracked up at that, laughing so loudly that even a few of the other patrons looked at them askance.

“Okay, stop distracting me because I have my match-making hat on and I have figured out the perfect dude for you. Dark, dangerous, sinful lips, and an anatomically perfect arse.”

Dany’s brain followed Margaery’s description with sluggish awe. “Who is this man, and when can I fuck him—I mean, _meet_ him?”

“That’s what’s so perfect about this, you already have,” Margaery said with the glee of a professional saleswoman hawking an exclusive product.

Dany frowned. She didn’t know anyone who fit that kind of near-godly description, did she…? A wolfish glare belonging to a certain brooding arsehole flashed in her head, but she shook it away.

“Jon Snow, silly!”

_Womp-womp_ , Dany thought with a grimace. “Oh, bloody hell no.”

“Why not? He’s the definition of dark and dangerous. The man handles guns for a living—have you ever seen him in his holster? Even I, a very _taken_ woman, trembled the first time I did. And that hair? His voice? Oh gods, he’s perfect for you.”

“He is not,” Dany said with a bit of drunken outrage. “He’s… rude! And obnoxious. And he’s cynical, and snarky, and _so not my type_. All he does is brood and frown at everything and everyone like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders and I’m like— _it’s a fucking wedding venue, Jon_ , _it’s not that bloody serious_!  And he’s—he’s—too short,” she finished rather lamely. As someone who barely cleared five feet, she probably didn’t have any room to talk. But still, he was exactly the _opposite_ kind of person for her. Even if he was pretty.

“You’ve given this an awful lot of thought for someone who doesn’t like him, Daenerys Targaryen.”

“I see what you’re doing and I just—no. Absolutely not. I wouldn’t touch Jon Snow with a ten-foot pole or even if you paid me!” That was a bit harsh. And perhaps not particularly true, but Dany was rather tipsy, and belligerent, so she went with it.

The truth was, she _had_ noticed his lips the first day they met, and that arse, and his voice _was_ a bit distracting. And all right, she’d had one— _one_ smutty dream about him, which may or may not have inspired the use of her hand to gain some relief when she’d woken up in a heated sweat of lust and annoyance. Only Jon Snow would plague her sleeping hours enough that she contemplated masturbating over him to get some peace. _Thank the bloody gods for cold showers_.

“He is a bit broody, isn’t he? To be fair, he has good reason to be, really—with what he went through.”

Even with her brain working slower than usual, Dany’s curiosity was piqued. She could remember, foggily, the way he’d railed about all things romance the other day. Even when she was pissed off at him and his negativity, there’d been something so sad about it, about how angry he seemed to be at the world. How lonely. Reluctantly, she asked, “What do you mean, ‘what he went through’?”

Margaery leaned forward in her seat, so she could lower her voice. Dany leaned in, since it felt like it was a super-top-secret secret.

“Well, I don’t know the full story, because I only came into the family a couple of years ago. But, apparently, Jon’s a war hero—gave _everything_ to queen and country in service at the Wall, worked undercover with insurgent groups and all of that. Then, he got injured in the line of duty. So bad that they thought he was dead, and when he came to, he was honourably discharged with a bunch of medals, including a Gold Cross and even an Order of the Raven. But Robb says he was let go against his will, and it left him without his life’s purpose or something terribly dramatic like that.”

Margaery let out a comically loud belch as she continued with the story. “Robb told me he spent months in a haze of self-destructive drunkenness, getting into fights with anyone who’d let him, isolating himself in some miserable mountain cabin because he felt like the world had used him up and thrown him away like trash. Like he didn’t deserve to be anything anymore…”

Dany felt her heart break a little.

She’d known a war dog named Barristan—or Uncle Barry to her—who’d been an old friend of the family. He’d always seemed so sad and broken and lonely, faultlessly loyal and protective of her and Viz for years before he passed on from a busted liver after a lifetime of self-medicating alcoholism.

“The family rallied around him, obviously, especially the kids. Jon and Robb were inseparable when they were younger, and his sister Arya as well. And he eventually dragged himself out of his spiral, but I don’t think he’s ever quite felt right since then—there’s always this… sullen, broody air to him, you know? Like he’s still pissed off at the world and hasn’t found much in it that makes him happy. Or even expect to find it.”

“That’s so sad,” she said, and she meant it. The way war vets were used and discarded after they’d served their purpose was bullshit and always had been. The universe always had a way of treating people who sacrificed so much like rubbish. None of it was fair.

Margaery nodded. “Yeah, it is… So, are you tempted to try him out?” She had one of her mischievous grins, eyebrows raised.

“Not even a little bit.” Dany said it with point blank certainty, polishing off her last martini and hailing for the bill, for which she insisted on paying, despite Margaery’s protests.

She wilfully ignored the voice in her head that whispered, _Liar_.

Later, exhausted and sobering up, Dany wrapped her freshly-showered body in a terrycloth robe and picked up her phone.

She signed into her bank account and transferred the money to the number she’d memorised a long time ago. She sent Viz a message, a simple one that she knew he wouldn’t reply to, at least not until he needed something else. _Luv u big bro_. It was a downer of a note to end what had been a lovely day and evening, some of the most fun she’d had with someone not-Missandei or Irri in a long time.

But it had to be done.

Real life and relationships weren’t all wrapped up in shiny gift paper and hearts; they were often a bit of a chore. But it was one she’d always taken seriously. One never knew when you could lose the people who mattered. Taking care of her only blood family was the right thing to do, even if it didn’t always make her feel good or happy. Absently, she thought about Jon Snow, and all his angry hate-the-world self-isolation. He had family that cared for him, without a doubt. But she couldn’t help but wonder how someone could go through life holding themselves apart like that and working so hard _not_ to care, and _not_ to love.

She put her phone down and switched on the telly to find _Woman of the Year_ on. She settled in to watch; if anything could cheer her up it would be Hepburn and Tracy trading insults and barbs over typewriters.

And if she fell asleep with the TV on and dreamed of sad, brooding eyes and bickering with a faceless dark-haired man that turned into weirdly acrobatic fucking on ink-stained desks covered in typewriters, then no one had to know.

 

#### ♣

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked that. More time with Jon in the next chapter.
> 
> I hope to reply to all of your kind words as soon as I'm able!


	4. a floral fixation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love will find you, even if you are trying to hide from it. I been trying to hide from it since I was five, but the girls keep finding me.  
> \- Dave, age 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quickie. Thank you for all your kind feedback, will try to reply. Thanks to my awesome beta for reading this thing!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

#### Love will find you, even if you are trying to hide from it. I been trying to hide from it since I was five, but the girls keep finding me.

####  **\- Dave, age 8**

 

 

#### ♣

 

All the things Jon knew about flowers could be written on a Post-It note, and you still wouldn’t be able to fill it.

Which is why he was genuinely baffled he’d been dragged along to this part of the wedding planning fiasco.

He watched as Margaery and her grandmother moved from hedgerow to hedgerow, examining each of the 600 different species of roses and a thousand other kinds of flowers, chatting to the ‘specialist’ in charge as they went.

Out of all the wedding stuff, this one was likely the easiest, given the Tyrells were the flower mavens of Westeros and probably parts of Essos. They’d built their empire on that sort of thing, as far as Jon knew.

“You’re really going to owe me after this, brother.”

Robb, who looked as nonplussed and disinterested as Jon felt, shrugged, hands shoved in his pockets with his sunglasses hanging off the back of his head in a way that made him look like the most dude bro of dude bros. Jon smiled a little at the sight. It reminded him of when they were kids in high school, with hardly any cares in the world and piss-full of attitude. At least he still had his brother underneath all this lovey-dovey marriage stuff.

“You know I dragged you here because I would’ve been bored out of my skull listening to all this horticultural stuff— and on a Saturday, of all days. I’ll buy you a beer next time we’re at a pub in thanks.”

“Make that two, and we’ll be somewhere near even.”

“You’ve got it,” Robb said, holding out his hand for a fist bump of solidarity.

Looking out at the choking profusion of flowers he didn’t know the names of, Jon realised he honestly hadn’t had much use for flowers in his life. Certainly not up at the Wall, where the landscape wasn’t particularly conducive to diverse, colourful plant life. Maybe the one time he’d ever willingly gifted anyone flowers was his date for his sixth form leavers’ dance, where giving your partner a pretty corsage was the thing to do. He’d given his date a winter rose, one of the few flowers you could find in anyone’s backyard glass house up North; delicate and arctic blue, they were quite pretty and wild with all those thorns.

The flowers down here where the weather was warmer were too countless to name. He didn’t envy Margaery picking between all of them, that was for sure. If it was up to him, he’d pick up some sunflowers and be done with it.

Robb had come to stand close to him, almost hovering with a marked frown on his face. He trailed behind Jon as they both ambled  along the hedgerow marked _Tropaeolum, commonly known as Nasturtium_ , which boasted more than 80 different varieties according to the little fact cards they’d been given. And, without a doubt, the insane number of colours—tangerine orange, navy blue, sunny yellows and pinks and purples—attested to how prolific the species was.

“Out with it, Robb.” He could tell when his brother had something on his mind he needed to get out. They’d always been good at doing that for each other, neither of them particularly communicative when it came to things they were wrestling with. It took a special kind of brotherly patience to draw it out.

“I’ve been meaning to say something to you for a while, but I’m a little scared you’ll be pissed at me.”

That sounded ominous. “Hm, I probably will be pissed—but you might as well get it over and done with.”

Robb stopped, and Jon did, too; he knew he wasn’t going to like whatever this was.

“I’m worried about you.”

Jon squinted at him with a bit of confusion. “Why?”

There was that Look on Robb’s face. One that Jon had thankfully been spared from seeing for close to a year. He hadn’t seen the Look since he’d moved to Kingsland for this new job at the central police department. In those weeks and months after the accident, the Look had been a constant feature of any and all conversations Jon had with Robb, and anyone else in his family. It was the kind of look people gave a rabid dog in the streets or a mad person having an episode in the subway— fearful, giving them a wide berth in case they bit you in the arse or lashed out, but still concerned and mildly impatient.

He hated the Look.

“It’s been over a year since you moved here,” Robb started. He put on his ‘older brother’ frown, which was always hilarious given that he was only a few months older than Jon anyway. “I’m proud of everything you’ve accomplished already—but sometimes it feels like you’re not really settled. Like you’re… lonely or something.”

Jon scoffed. “What do you mean? I have a flat, and Ghost, and friends—”

“How many ‘friends’ are people you don’t see at work every day?”

“I have non-work friends.” His voice had an almost whiny quality right then that he didn’t like, but he couldn’t help himself really. _He did have friends_. There was… Jon wracked his brain. Sam was a good friend, but technically they worked together given that Sam was the in-house data analyist for every police station in the tri-state. Davos was a good friend whom he’d met through work back when he was undercover. Maege, a fellow detective, a transplant from up North, had been one of the people to welcome him to this stinking city, and she was always good for a drink after long days at work. And then there was Tormund, who he used to work with at the Wall, but who’d left his job to follow the love of his life down South and now the two of them were married, and Tormund had opened a pub of all things. Thinking about it like that, pretty much every person he could count as a friend, he’d met through work. And besides Tormund, most of them he only really saw _at_ work or on rare occasions.

“Okay, so I’m not a social butterfly. But I’ve _never_ been a social butterfly, so I don’t see what the big deal is here.”

“Look, it’s not a massive deal. We’re all just worried that you’re not settling in as well as you think you are, and that you’re letting yourself be consumed by work to the point where it might as well be your girlfriend. And that’s not healthy.”

“Is this you being all broody and wanting to see everyone getting hitched just because you’ve got yourself a fiancée? Because that’s bloody weird.”

“No,” Robb said, his blue eyes earnest and kind as always. “This is me being worried about my little brother because I had to watch him rebuild his entire life after his heart was broken when the shitty government let him go. I know you try to hide it when you’re with all of us, but I can see it sometimes. I can see you brooding and pulling into yourself.”

Jon rolled his eyes, punching Robb in the shoulder to deflect from the sudden heaviness of the subject. “I’m literally a few months younger than you, you twat.”

“Still means I have age privilege, you even bigger twat.”

“Whatever.” Jon reached out to touch the petal of one of the tiny nasturtiums, a pale white one, delicate to the point of translucence. “I’m good, okay? I just—I’m taking life day by day, you know?”

Rob sighed. “I know. I’m proud of you, and I love you. Even if you are a moody arsehole most of the time.”

“You’ve really become unbearably sappy ever since you decided to get married. I’m not sure I like it.”

“How can I not be sappy when I’m marrying the woman of my dreams?” Robb declared without even a trace of irony.

Jon grimaced theatrically. “That’s, without a doubt, the most horrifying thing you’ve ever said. Who are you, and where have you taken my brother?”

“Oh, shut up, would you?” This time Robb was the one who punched him in the shoulder. It stung a little, but it made Jon smile. This was easier. The two of them ribbing each other was as familiar a terrain as breathing.

“What? You can’t blame me. You sound like something out of Sansa’s crap CW shows. Whatever balls you once had are well-and-truly gone. I’m sorry on your behalf.”

“Well don’t be,” Robb said before his smirk got rather filthy. “Margaery makes sure my balls are well taken care of—often.”

“I suppose that’s one motivation to get married. Ensure you’ll have regular sex for the foreseeable future.”

“Trust me, there’s nothing ‘regular’ about the special thing Margaery does with her tongue—”

Jon interrupted him with a disturbed yelp. “Please, stop! I never want to think about my future sister-in-law and what she does to your body parts. Ever.” Margaery was fast-becoming as much a sister to him as Sansa or Arya, and he honestly didn’t want to have that kind of visual in his head.

“On a serious note, the sex isn’t even the best part—although it’s right up there. I _want_ to be with Margaery for the rest of my life. She’s the one. The other half of my soul, you know?”

“I take it back,” Jon said. “That is now the most horrific thing you’ve ever said.” He looked at his brother askance and asked, genuinely curious, “How can you even be so sure? What if you wake up tomorrow and you’re not in love anymore, or the ‘rest of your life’ turns into five years?”

Robb offered a half-shrug as he gazed to where Margaery was standing with her grandmother, a soft look in his eyes. “I’ve never been surer of anything in my life. From the minute I met her, really. It’s… crazy,” Robb said with a self-deprecating laugh. “You know when you meet someone, and whenever you’re with them, the whole world goes quiet? The universe could completely collapse, but it wouldn’t matter, because you have her?”

Jon really looked at his brother now. He’d never seen Robb like this with anyone, which was a good thing, as it must mean he and Margaery were deeply, madly, stupidly in love. But it was… weird, and sort of fascinating.

_Fascinating_ in a way that Jon never wanted to experience such a thing, like observing someone with a rare tropical disease, or a unibrow.

He answered bluntly: “No. And frankly that’s a _good_ thing. My entire job is to make sure the whole world doesn’t collapse so if that happened, I’d like to be bloody aware and stop it.”

Robb burst into laughter then. “Where’s your sense of romance, man?”

“Good and dead where it belongs.” Jon raised his hands up to indicate that the whole world was his oyster. “Besides, I don’t need romance to get my cock wet, do I?”

Before Robb could answer, Margaery called to him to come and see something. Jon ignored the vaguely pitying look on his brother’s face and watched as the man ran to his fiancée with the eagerness of a puppy being offered a treat. It was ridiculous and embarrassing. He was happy for his brother, really, he was. But he’d rather shave his head bald than look that foolish running after a girl. And everyone who knew him was aware there was nothing, certainly no girl, he loved more than his own hair.

“I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t try to poison your brother’s mind with your tiresome anti-romance, anti-love, anti-everything that’s good in the world shtick,” a vexed voice drawled somewhere to his left.

Jon looked over the hedgerow of pretty nasturtiums to see the most irritating woman on the planet glaring at him with her usual waspish impatience. For some reason, he’d really hoped she wasn’t showing up today, but of course here she was, probably with her little notebook in-hand, looking like some kind of mean schoolteacher.

“Anyone ever told you it’s rude to eavesdrop, princess?”

She was so short that he could only see her from the chin-up over the intense bush of flowers. Her hair was done in some complicated updo that made her seem that much more like a schoolmarm. Except, if he’d had any teachers that looked like her running around his school, he’d have flunked out of his O-levels.

“It’s not like you were whispering—I could probably hear you boasting about how you get your cock wet from the next county.”

She sounded especially put-out by that as her face scrunched up in a way that could, in some alternate reality, be cute, and sneezed. She dug into what was likely her bag and blew her nose loudly enough that Jon had to snicker. She sounded like a foghorn.

“Oh, you’ve been thinking about _my cock_ , have you?” Jon tried not to examine why the notion of her thinking about that made said part of his anatomy stiffen just a bit. It was clearly a Pavlovian response to the mention. Just because a dog’s ears perked up at the sound of a random dog whistle, it didn’t mean they wanted to lick said whistle or hump it like the back of a chair leg.

He cringed mentally at the metaphor. Literature had never been his strongest subject.

“Hardly,” she shot back with a derisive sneer that was rather ruined by her sneezing thrice in succession. “It’s not like— _achoo_ —there’s much— _achoo_ —under there to think about.”

Pretending to be scandalised at the insult, Jon slapped a hand on his chest. “If you want me to show you just how much there is to think about under here, all you had to do was ask.”

“I would rather contract incurable rabies from a direwolf, thanks very much.”

They both came to the end of their respective rows at the same time, stepping into the aisle to face each other. It was on the tip of Jon’s tongue to escalate their bickering into a fight—but he got distracted by the dress she was wearing, a colourful peasant style that left the slopes of her shoulders bare and glazed golden in the sun, the skirt barely skimming the tops of her knees, and another pair of her impractical high-heeled sandals on her feet. The whole outfit made her legs look miles long, and without wanting to, his brain flashed to an image of what those legs might look like wrapped around his waist. Or better yet, thrown over his shoulders as he leaned down to—

Shaking himself out of that dangerous daydream, Jon shot back with half-hearted ire, “Well, I happen to have a pet direwolf—so I could probably oblige you on that front as well.”

Daenerys opened her mouth to, no doubt, insult him, but was foiled by a series of adorable sneezes and another loud nose-blowing exercise.  Jon shook himself out of the inexplicable trance he’d fallen into. “You okay there, princess? You sound like my bike when the engine’s clogged up and about to conk out.”

She flicked an exasperated look at him, a smile tickling at the corner of her mouth almost despite herself. “I know—I sound awful. I’m technically— _achoo_ —allergic to flowers. But I felt like I needed to be here to make sure everything’s all sorted. And I love flowers, so spending a day in this outdoor plant nursery isn’t a chore.”

“How is one ‘technically’ allergic to flowers?” He returned her smile, scanning her slightly watery eyes and flushed cheeks. Even like this, clearly miserable from her allergies, she was absurdly fetching to look at. Her hair fell across her face in a way that made his fingers itch to reach out and brush it back. He stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“Well, I’m only allergic when I don’t take my medication. And because I forgot to do that before I came here because I was in a rush and couldn’t find it, now I’m about to hack up a lung full of snot.” It was all said in a rush, her voice sounded stuffy, her nose clearly blocked.

Before he could do something dumb, like offer to run off to a nearby pharmacy and buy some allergy pills for her or kiss her red nose, something blue with a long red cape whizzed just past his periphery vision before it tripped, bumping into his side and then dropping to the ground with a thud.

The form, a tow-haired young lad dressed in a Superman costume, crumpled to the ground in a heap before he started crying. _Loudly_.

Jon wanted to tell the boy to quit squalling because was that really necessary? He’d never been much of a children-friendly person, except with his own siblings. For a while now, he’s been quite certain that he never wanted to procreate with anyone at all.  So, the distraught little person screeching up a storm at his feet was doubly-annoying.

But then, to his shock, Daenerys plopped herself down next to the kid, her face creased in pretty concern. “Hey, sweetheart, why are you crying?”

The boy, apparently gobsmacked that an adult (a) wasn’t pissed (b) wasn’t calling his parents to kick his arse and (c) had sat down right next to him in the middle of a pathway like it was a normal thing to do, stopped wailing with a hiccup.

“I—I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to bump into you, and now I’ve broken the flowers!”

The pile of flowers did look slightly wilted and miserable, but Daenerys shook her head. “Oh no, look at these, they’re still so lovely.” She started to pick up some of the daisies and roses and whatever else, placing them carefully in the kid’s basket. All her allergy woes were forgotten for the moment, her attention entirely focused on the child, as if they were the only two people in the world and putting the flowers back where they belonged was a task of utmost importance.  “See? Still beautiful and not-broken, just a little bruised. But—you want to know a secret about these kinds of flowers? Between us superheroes?”

The child, looking at her with a gaze of singular awe and hero-worship, nodded.

“You can still save them. If you put them in a nice little vase of water and give them a little sunlight and tender loving care, they’ll feel right as rain.”

She had the sweetest dimple in her left cheek when she smiled the way she was now, all gentle and open. She placed the last rose back in the basket.

Jon felt a hazy warmth as he observed her, the rest of the world and even the little boy, who was gazing at her adoringly and being helped to his feet while she brushed dust and clumps of dirt off his clothes, seeming to recede. His belly plunged in an uncomfortable way. Kind of like the feeling one gets before paragliding off a particularly high precipice (something he’d done once off the Wall to fulfil the consequences of a dare from his mate Grenn, and he’d almost broken his neck for it, but it had been a good deal of fun), the pull of gravity wreaking havoc on the insides.

It was a downright unpleasant sensation.

As soon as the kid trundled off to find his parents, Daenerys stood up and caught him staring at her. “What?”

Jon cleared his throat and blinked. “Nothing. You’re very… good with kids,” he remarked inanely. For some reason he felt unsettled, his tongue too heavy for his own mouth and his eyes unwilling to stray away from her. She was beautiful—there wasn’t another word for it. Her kindness only made her more so.

“I should be—once you’ve had to deal with screaming three-year old ring bearers enough times, you learn how to charm the little buggers when necessary.”

Dipping his head, Jon took a step back and gestured vaguely in the direction where Robb was. “I should go and find my brother—say my goodbyes. Have to head back to the station for my afternoon shift.” He sounded like someone who’d had a major brain fart.

Daenerys shrugged at him, a slight furrow of her brow the only indication that she thought his sudden awkwardness odd. With a lilt of humour, she said, “Okay—well, see you, hopefully _not_ -so-soon, Jon Snow.” With that, she turned around, making her way down a path of bright orange and red flowers, her handkerchief in hand even as she grazed her hands across the flower petals like some sort of fey princess.

Jon tried not to stare too hard at her legs in those unfathomable heels of hers, tried not to imagine the delicate skin at the back of her knees and how soft it might feel beneath his fingertips, or even his lips. He’d thought about what it might feel like to be in close proximity to her, a few more times than was sensible or appropriate in the last ten minutes alone.

There was _something_ about Daenerys Targaryen and how… peculiar she made him feel. Yet another thing to add onto the list of stuff he didn’t like about the woman.

He mumbled absently to the flowers around him, “Get your shit together, mate,” and made his way towards the exit.

#### ♣

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work is mad, so hopefully the next update will come in the next two weeks or so. No promises made lest I disappoint! Thanks for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that was mildly entertaining. Comments welcome. Until next time (I will figure out my schedule)!


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